Chapter 1: The Mistaken Kiss Amongst the Stacks
The bell above the door jangled, a sharp, intrusive sound against the quiet hum of the bookstore. Silje Olsen, perched on the top rung of the wooden ladder, didn’t turn around. She was deep in the meticulous world of reorganizing the first-edition poetry section, her fingers dusting the gilded spine of a Yeats collection. The late afternoon light slanted through the front window, catching motes of dust that danced like tiny, disordered constellations. The air smelled of old paper, leather, and the faint, lingering hint of Markus’s expensive espresso from that morning.
“Hey, you.”
The voice was a warm, confident punch in the quiet room. Silje glanced down. A woman stood just inside the doorway, backlit by the grey Oslo street, a blur of vibrant energy. She had choppy brown hair that looked windswept even indoors, and eyes that seemed to find the muted light and amplify it.
Before Silje could form a ‘hello,’ or ‘can I help you,’ the woman was moving. A grin, wide and reckless, spread across her face. She crossed the worn Persian rug in three quick strides, her boots tapping a decisive rhythm on the floorboards.
“God, it’s been ages,” the woman said, her voice dropping to something intimate, conspiratorial.
Silje opened her mouth, a polite correction on her lips. I think you have me confused with—
The ladder wobbled. The woman’s hands, warm and sure, settled on Silje’s hips to steady her. The contact was electric, a sudden, shocking contrast to the brittle stillness of the books.
Then the woman leaned in.
Her kiss wasn’t tentative. It was a full, unequivocal press of lips, a statement. It tasted of mint and the crisp outdoor air and something else, something bold and caffeinated. Silje’s hands, still clutching the Yeats, froze in mid-air. Her brain short-circuited, a static scream drowning out the rational part of her that knew this was a mistake, an error, a case of profound mistaken identity. Her body, however, hummed a different tune. A heat bloomed low in her stomach, unfamiliar and entirely disconcerting.
A heat bloomed low in her stomach, unfamiliar and entirely disconcerting. The world shrank to the scent of this stranger’s leather jacket, the firm pressure of her hands, the soft, insistent warmth of her mouth.
Astrid pulled Silje in and deepened the kiss.
One hand slid from Silje’s hip to the small of her back, anchoring her. The other came up to cradle her jaw, a thumb stroking her cheekbone with a terrifying tenderness. The initial shock melted, replaced by a rush of sensation so vivid it was blinding. The taste of her—spearmint and black coffee—was suddenly all there was. Silje’s fingers, numb, lost their grip on the Yeats. It tumbled, pages fluttering, to the rug below with a soft thud she didn’t hear.
Her own hands, as if moving of their own volition, came to rest tentatively on Astrid’s shoulders. The leather was cool, worn smooth. A small, soundless gasp escaped her as the kiss shifted, becoming more exploratory, more sure. It was a question she had no answer to, written in a language her body was beginning to understand.
This was nothing like the careful, practiced kisses she’d known before. This was a forest fire in a room full of kindling.
From somewhere in the fog, a crash. The sound of scattering, skidding leather and paper.
“Holy shit on a cracker.”
The voice—Markus’s voice, high with disbelief—sliced through the moment like a knife.
Astrid broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look into Silje’s eyes. Her own were wide, bright with a dawning horror that was entirely different from the heat of a second before. Her breath, warm and quick, fanned Silje’s lips.
“Oh,” Astrid whispered. The word was a puff of air, a deflation. “Oh, no.”
Silje stared back, her lips tingling, her mind a white page. She saw the realization crash over Astrid’s features, erasing the confidence, leaving behind sheer, undiluted panic.
“You’re not Linnea,” Astrid said, her voice cracking.
Silje slowly shook her head. Her hands were still on the stranger’s shoulders. She couldn’t seem to let go.
Markus appeared from behind a stack of Scandinavian fiction, his arms empty, his face a masterpiece of theatrical shock. A tray lay upturned near the philosophy section, rare Art Nouveau editions fanned across the floor like a hand of badly played cards. He looked from Silje’s flushed face to Astrid’s stricken one, to the space between them which still seemed to crackle.
“Clearly,” Markus drawled, placing a hand on his chest. “Though, for the record, I have several follow-up questions.”
Astrid stumbled back, releasing Silje completely. The sudden absence of her touch felt like a cold draft. “I am so… I thought you were… she said her friend ran a bookstore, and you look… from behind, with the hair…”
She was babbling, gesturing wildly at Silje’s long blonde plait. Her earlier charisma had shattered, leaving behind a rattled, beautiful mess.
Silje finally found her voice. It came out softer than she intended, a little unsteady. “I’m Silje.”
“Astrid,” the woman blurted, as if offering up her name as both apology and explanation. “I’m… God, I’m so sorry. That was… I’ve had a crush on her for years, and I just saw you and I…” She ran a hand through her short hair, making it stand up in chaotic spikes. “I acted like a total maniac.”
Markus sauntered closer, his eyes gleaming with unabashed curiosity. “A passionate, literature-defiling maniac. My best stock, darling.” He gestured mournfully at the scattered books. “You kiss like that, you pay for damages.”
Astrid looked truly pained. “I’ll buy them. I’ll buy every single one.”
Silje climbed down from the ladder, her legs feeling less solid than she would have liked. She bent, slowly, and picked up the fallen Yeats. She smoothed a creased page, not looking at either of them. Her heart was still doing a strange, staccato rhythm against her ribs. The ghost of the kiss pulsed on her lips. She should be offended. She should be ushering this chaotic woman out of her quiet, orderly sanctuary.
Instead, she was intrigued.
She looked up at Astrid, who was now staring at the floor like a scolded child. “Linnea,” Silje repeated. “You’re friends with Linnea? Linnea Hagen?”
Astrid’s head snapped up. “Yes! You know her?”
“She orders a lot of design monographs. Never picks them up in person.” Silje placed the book gently on a nearby table. The ordinary action felt surreal. “She has a sister. With similar hair.”
“The resemblance is… uncanny from behind,” Astrid muttered, flushing a deep, attractive pink. “I’m just going to… I should go. I’m really, profoundly sorry.”
She turned to leave, the earlier boldness in her posture completely gone, replaced by a slump of embarrassment.
“Wait.”
The word left Silje’s mouth before her brain could veto it. Astrid stopped, shoulders tense.
Silje wiped her palms on her oversized sweater. She felt Markus’s gaze burning into the side of her head. “The books you knocked over,” she said, her voice finding a firmer ground. “They’re fragile. You should help put them back properly. Since you offered to buy them.”
Astrid turned around, her green eyes searching Silje’s face for mockery. Finding none, a flicker of her earlier spark returned. “Right. Of course. Proper shelving etiquette. I’m… I’m good with my hands.”
Markus coughed, a laugh disguised as a choke.
Silje ignored him, holding Astrid’s gaze. The air, which had gone cold with awkwardness, warmed again by a degree. “I’ll show you,” Silje said, and took a step forward.